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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762955">flowers to write you letters.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tukiaa/pseuds/tukiaa'>tukiaa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DARLING In The FRANXX (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Lesbian Character, Domestic Fluff, F/F, First Meetings, Floriography, Florists, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Language of Flowers, just a bunch of gay people doing what gay people do, no beta we die like variously gendered people, they're sort of adults? it has nothing to do with the story it's just preference</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:15:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,327</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762955</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tukiaa/pseuds/tukiaa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>➸ kokoro meets eyes with an all too attractive woman, and amidst her fluster there's a favor to be asked.<br/>tl;dr: kokoro gay flower woman and ikuno pretty plant-killing lady</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ikuno | 196/Kokoro | 556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>flowers to write you letters.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>➸ i remember seeing an instagram caption someone i know uploaded that seemed so,,,, beautifully eccentric? for<br/>great lack of a better term. i've had this pairing in mind for a while, even if its a very, very rare pair. below is the mentioned caption, and below that is the fic ^^<br/>➸ i also drew heavy inspiration from the floral symbolism in Darling in the Franxx !<br/>➸ unedited!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁</p><p>
  <em> A woman from up the way asked me yesterday walking back home with the dogs if I wanted some poppies she had, because she didn’t want them to die. When she came back 30 minutes later and handed the poppies to me over the fence, I told her I’d do my “best” saving them, but cut flowers don’t usually have a round 2. Then I offered an exchange, some beautiful hydrangeas in hues of blues and purples, dropped off a day earlier by a good friend. I’d just put them on the front porch, and told her these she could just enjoy, knowing their days were numbered. She left happy. I will appreciate just looking at these sad poppies for a couple days before they end up in the compost, hoping she will be doing the same. </em>
</p><p>✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁</p><p>The fresh dew on the leaves from above me catch on my wrists, my sweat blending in with it as the sun batters. The soil below me is a rich brown and behaving nicely, allowing the plants in my hand to nestle safely and a new life to begin. A deep hole, around 12-15 inches which reminds faintly of a warm and swallowing hug welcomes the bulbs in its embrace. Light and acidic is the enriched soil which I proceed to lay on top, covering the plants in a well-cared for area by the sunlight.</p><p>It seems the day has started off on my side, I note as I finish planting the white lily bulbs. The little round things, now covered with a blanket of earth, thank me as I stand up and dust myself off. I rest my gloves on a nearby table, sitting down and leaning back in my seat to rest. A heavy sigh escapes me, perspiration creeping from my hairline as a result of the suspiciously hot early spring weather. </p><p>Floriography, or the language of flowers. It's a hidden way of communication one can only understand if they trust every bit of their being to the flora. There were, of course, many interpretations that stemmed from it over the years, and you may lose yourself in those personalized concepts, but it’s crucial not to ignore what floriography is at its core— a system of unspoken words. I’m not very good at expressing myself through my words, which has always been a pressing issue of mine for quite a few years now. But, I feel some comfort in the fact that I can illustrate what I think with my flowers. Be it speaking, singing, or sobbing, having to cultivate and raise my emotions is one of the few things I take pride in.</p><p>I should shower later at night, I note. I’m starting to work up a sweat; I feel somewhat filthy. The sun beats down on the surface of my face, making me conscious of its omnipresent reign. I’m almost inclined to just scurry inside and fall on my bed in a blatant disregard of everything outside, but alas, I still have more to tend to out in the yard. I heave myself up from my temporary rest and take a stroll around the back garden, making sure everyone is comfortable and singing their usual tune. Other than my usual flowers, I also raise some peppers and tomatoes here and there. Alongside the beds where my marigolds and snapdragons rest, the chili peppers I’m hoping to harvest in 30 days time are growing firmly and with a healthy shine to their shells. Checking off the boxes in my mental list, I make my way over to the front yard. </p><p>Flowers are usually displayed in the comfort of one’s home for their own pleasure. But, because I believe in floriography, I believe in expressing my feelings with everyone without using my voice. So, every week or so I have a few little metal containers filled with flowers hung up on the fence outside of my home. It’s a nice addition that I’ve kept going for a year now, swapping out the collection of flowers in the containers every week or so. There’s a certain feeling of serenity and joy I experience when I see people pass by them and stop for those few seconds to admire. Which reminds me, today is the day to swap them out.</p><p>I’ve already started picking out the bits of baby’s breath and decorated strings of snapdragons when I’m greeted by a smooth, firm, but easy-on-the-ears voice.</p><p>“Hello, Kokoro.”</p><p>I look up from where my hands are, and am greeted by the faintest of familiar faces. Her hair is tied back into a low ponytail, her square glasses are sliding off the bridge of her nose, and her deep olive eyes speak a thousand words. We’ve crossed paths a few times, and I’ve caught her standing in front of my flowers on one too many occasions. Ah, what’s her name…</p><p>“Hi! Uh…” I feel embarrassed when my voice trails off.</p><p>“Ikuno,” she smiles. I almost lose the name as soon as she sends it my way, for I’ve been staring too hard at her pupils and irises. Really, I’ve never seen eyes like hers so up close. Swirling in shades of a mute green and staring with a purpose. They remind me of a stagnant pond with green carnations floating on top, calla lilies surrounding the edge and her thoughts and emotions replacing the water. In an odd enough way, I see myself in them.</p><p>“Right! Sorry, I’m not very good with names.”</p><p>“No, no, don’t worry, we’ve only met a handful of times. Actually, I can’t help but admire the flowers you have out here. What kind are you taking out right now?”</p><p>A burst of ecstasy unfurls and blooms inside of me when I watch her eyes become invested with what I have going on with my flowers. I could discuss them for ages, of course, but,</p><p>“Well, as of now, I’m picking out a rather monotone arrangement of white anemone flowers and baby’s breath. I think I put some black hellebore in here as well,” I bunch up the bouquet and set it down on a nearby glass table. Ikuno hums in understanding, and I can still feel her gaze boring into me as I take out the flowers in the next container. It’s, in actuality, quite shameful for me to admit this, but everything about her is strikingly attractive. As I become aware of this idea, my fingers begin to tremble in such a slight way I pray only I notice it. </p><p>“That’s a pretty selection,” her words are full of thought. “Sorry if I come off as dull sometimes; it’s difficult for me to come off clearly. I do enjoy your flowers, though. Don’t get me wrong; I came here for something unrelated, but I just wanted to say I love passing by your home often to see what new arrangements you have up.”</p><p>My head begins to fog up like springs of fiddlehead ferns when the compliments start pouring in from her. It’s already anxiety-inducing enough that such an alluring woman took the time out of her day to visit me, but to hear that she’s taken notice of the floral bouquets I hang up every week and was so taken she praised it in person? My heart is thrumming even quicker against my chest. </p><p>“Why, thank you! It’s not much, but I like seeing people stop for a few moments to admire the flowers. It’s the little things that matter, you know?”</p><p>“Mhm, well I shouldn’t stall the issue any longer. I actually came over here for a favor, if that wouldn’t bother you too much.”</p><p>“Not at all. What can I do for you?”</p><p>“I was hoping you could care for these white poppies I have. I’m not very good with plants. Actually, I killed quite a few of them as a child. These poppies are so charming, it’d pain me to see them die due to my negligence.”</p><p>She hands me a vase of slightly wilted white poppies. They’re drooping, and their petals weep into the water that swirls in thin ribbons of murk. Most of all, I notice, they’re cut. What a shame, I click my tongue in my head. Cut flowers don’t last very long, and I can tell by the frail state these poppies are in that they’re nearing the end of their lines.  </p><p>“Ah…” I can’t mask my uncertainty. These flowers may as well be my family, and I’ll treat them as such. “I’ll do my best to save them, you can be sure of that. But there’s only so much I can do.”</p><p>“Oh, I see..” Her voice withers like the poppies she gave me. Like a dog’s faint whining, I feel compelled to do something for her when there is nothing to do. I wrack my brain, opening drawers and sifting through cabinets before I — to my surprise — find something of value. </p><p>“Well, tell you what,” I dust off my soiled, but gloved hands on my apron and tilt my head up to face her. Gosh, she’s really pretty. “Some hydrangeas rich in shades of purple and lavender came in yesterday, along with some bundles of acacia blossoms. I can also pull some strings and get my hands on some fresh and rejuvenated white poppies. Since you aren’t very good with plants, I can at least put these out for you to look at. It isn’t a very fair exchange, I know-”</p><p>“No! No, no ,no,” she waves her hands in a hurried manner, “it’s just fine. Perfect, actually! I wasn’t expecting anything in return, so this is already more than I asked for. Thank you, though. It really means a lot.” Ah, she looks attractive even when she’s flustered.</p><p>“Well then,” I take the vase aside to place on the same nearby table with last week’s arrangement, and slide my gloves off, “it’s a deal.” </p><p>One of the main components of floriography is sending messages to others via the symbolism behind flowers. Back in the Victorian era, tussie-mussies (an alternative name for bouquets) were used in greater frequency with the motive of communicating with others. Each plant, each flower had (and has) its own special meaning which was honored greatly in those times. For instance, white poppies are a symbol of peace and remembrance of those who passed in a war. They can also mean rejoice or celebration. They’re one of my favorite flowers, actually. White and pure and lined with serenity. </p><p>Purple hydrangeas can symbolize the desire to want to truly understand someone. They convey the beginning of a deep connection. I’m not sure as to why I felt so inveigled to mention them to Ikuno; it just felt right to do so.</p><p>Acacia blossoms represent beauty in retreat, rebirth, or a secret love. I like to believe the small puffs that huddle next to each other in this plant are all little tokens of love and affection one has for their partner. </p><p>I want to say more. “Stay for tea,” “let me show you my garden”, “do you want some peppers?” The words roil and slink their way to the very tip of my tongue, but don’t dare escape me.</p><p>I turn around to leave, forgetting to say goodbye in the midst of my verbal paralysis.</p><p>“Ah, uh, Kokoro!”</p><p>“Hm?” My feet skid to a stop, heart still thrumming against the surface of my skin as if it never stopped. I squeeze and twist my gloves in my hands.</p><p>“Is it okay— uh, is it okay if I come over later? I might be bad at handling plants and whatnot, but I don’t think it’d hurt to learn.”</p><p>“Yes!” The word leaves in too quick of a hurry. Ah, my heart is beating so fast. I haven’t felt this way in a while, nor have I tripped over my feet in such an embarrassing manner. This woman and her poetic eyes, making my mind lose itself in its very own sunflower maze. “Yes. I mean, I’d love to have you over.”</p><p>“Alright! It’s a date, then.”</p><p>She begins to walk back up the way she came, leaving me more disordered than when she met me. My grip on my gloves has loosened, and the memory of her expressive leer and entangling voice digs into my fingertips. </p><p>I realize I forgot to bring the vase with me on my way to the door. I take it in one swift motion, murmuring an apology to the white poppies before I open the front door and scurry in. </p><p>White poppies. The staple flower for peace and joy. Ikuno will come at any given moment, I realize when I think back to our conversation. She didn’t give me a set time. That must mean I have to work as fast as I possibly can in anticipation for her arrival. </p><p>It’s been a while since a woman has gotten my mind in a knot and my steps burning in such a manner that I want to share glances with her for hours on end. Back and forth, like cat and mouse. Geez, I sigh, I’m behaving like such a child today. But, in an odd enough way, shame has yet to fill me. In spite of the calm and tranquil atmosphere I’ve allowed myself to live in for the past few years, I feel invigorated at the change of scenery. Like a white lily stretching out its arms in the beginnings of summer, my ardor blossoms with every step I take.</p><p>I take the strewn-together group of purple hydrangeas that sit on my counter. As I make my way back outside to the front yard for a diligent replacement, I can’t help but see Ikuno in the petals. I hope when she looks at the flowers that I arrange out here, she thinks of me in return. </p><p>Ah, look at the time, I’m letting my mind wander too much… </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>➸ i did lots of research on plants and floriography prior to writing this, because i know almost nothing about gardening myself (lol)<br/>➸ floriography is a really interesting way of communication, so i highly suggest everyone read up on it at least once in their life!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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